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Id, Ego, Super Ego

I attended a couple of Japanese schools in Colombia and Japan between the ages of six and thirteen, except for the year I went to a school ran by Opus Dei – things that just happen in life and that one remembers with particular tenderness years after. I entered first grade with seven other classmates, all of them children of Japanese temporary expatriates living in Bogota. The fact that I was not full Japanese was made evident on the very first day of school, during the School Entrance Ceremony. We were lined up just outside of the gym’s main entrance, waiting for the cue to march in silence behind our homeroom teacher. We were supposed to walk in through the middle aisle, as we were the protagonists of the day, surrounded by the students from second to ninth grade, my parents, and my classmates’ parents who quietly observed us from the back rows.

From the very first moment, I knew that something was not quite right. My fellow classmates were dressed in their Western-style gala attires, which consisted of grey or navy blue short pants suits, matching ties, short-sleeve white shirts, knee-high socks, and leather shoes for boys, and pink or soft colored dresses with pleated bottoms, short waist jackets, leggings, and patent leather shoes for girls. I think it was the first time I saw kids my age dressed like corporate executives. As for me, I was dressed according to the fashion trend of the 80’s: a pair of high-waist khakis, a smart casual shirt, thick-sole brown leather shoes, and a thick leather jacket, no tie. (I even think that the jacket was borrowed because I do not recall wearing it ever again.) I was confused at first, not sure whether it was me or them who were the losers who had not properly dressed up for the occasion. I lowered my eyes and looked down. “Oooh, crap… Yeah, real nice… A really nice start, indeed. Well done, Taiki!” I reprimanded myself.

The real problem began on the second day of school: I hardly spoke any Japanese. Sure, my father had spoken to me in this language from the day I was born, but it was the first time I had no option to communicate in Spanish, thus making me feel vulnerable. However, it soon became apparent that there was hardly any need for me to proactively speak in Japanese or to even speak at all, for that matter – my classmates would not address me or play with me because 1) my Japanese was mediocre and 2) I had no clue what they were playing at because I had never had references to the Japanese popular culture. On top of that, I had somehow attracted the rage of two second graders who would come after me on and off to have a few laughs while bullying me. I saw myself as Nobita, the feeble minded boy who always depended on Doraemon, the cat-like robot from the 22nd century who lived with Nobita and his family. The major difference between the anime and I was that there was no Doraemon in my life to rescue me.

Less than a year later, though, my life changed. My family moved to Japan and I began attending a local public school in the city of Shin-Matsudo, in the prefecture of Chiba, located about two hours away from downtown Tokyo. Each district in the city had its own elementary school, ages six through twelve. My school’s student population was not forty-five students, like the one back in Colombia, but more than two thousand. This time, I was the first foreigner in the school’s history besides another Japanese boy whose family had lived in Brazil for a few years and had recently returned to Japan. This information was irrelevant, however. It was not long before I began to dress like my new friends (T-shirt, short pants, knee-high socks, and sneakers, even during the winter), got soaked in the Japanese popular culture that everyone shared and enjoyed, and, most importantly, began to speak just like them. I had become a well-adjusted and successful Nobita in Japan. Unfortunately, and to my great disappointment, my father’s assignment in Japan was unexpectedly interrupted and we had to return to Colombia.

I returned to my old Japanese school in Bogota as a second grader, and my life changed again. As if by magic, my old classmates approached me with enthusiasm, and I felt as if I were the cool one in the group. My Japanese identity had taken over. I spoke, dressed, and most importantly, thought and acted as an authentic Japanese. In fact, I now consider the next few years I spent at the Japanese school in Bogota as one of my happiest ones in my life. I had a solid identity, I had a very close group of friends, and I excelled academically. To this day, though, I still cannot make out whether this was something positive or negative developmentally. When I finally left the Japanese education system to start at an international school at the age of 13, I found myself lost in a labyrinth – I was suddenly living in a completely different set of cultural paradigms and it was very uncomfortable to me. Things did not seem to fall into place until I was 20 when I went to the US to go to college and my identity adopted a totally different shade of meaning, but that is another story.